Shira looks up when I come in. She looks great, her hair is blown and mermaid styled, and her velour sweatshirt dress is both cozy and cute. I wonder if she knows anything about Lara’s mysterious summons, but I know she wouldn’t tell me anyway.

“You look great,” I tell her. She throws me a fake smile and sugar-sweet “thaaanks,” and busies herself at her desk.

Ugh, I don’t have the nerves for this. I sit down at my desk and pretend to be busy until eleven. Then I throw my shoulders back, wipe my sweaty palms on my skirt, and knock on Lara’s door.

I walk out 40 minutes later, shaking. My cheeks hurt from smiling so wide. I step out of the office, take great gulps of fresh air, and whip out my phone. My first reaction is to text Ma. But she’s MIA. I purse my lips, annoyed, and then tap off a message to Mike, even though he’s in seder and won’t see it ’til later.

Guess who just got promoted to Lara Cohen’s assistant?!

Ping. I thought you were getting fired, madam

Huh. Why isn’t he in seder?

LOL. why is your phone on you?

Ping. Just taking a little break. Felsen needed to talk to someone

The Felsens down the block have been married forever, at least five years, and they just had their third, a little boy born with Down syndrome.

He’s a good guy, Mike. I know, without a doubt, that he’d rather be in seder than schmoozing with Felsen. He needs structure and schedules to keep him happy, otherwise he feels out of control. But there’s also a part of me that’s thinking, If you’re going to take off from seder, maybe instead of talking to Felsen, you can wash the dishes you left on the table? Charity begins at home, hun.

But all I write back is you’re such a good friend.

I look out at the treelined road. The blue sky and blinding sun belie the fact that it’s 42 degrees, and I hug myself tightly for warmth.

I can’t believe I was just promoted. Me! Lara Cohen’s assistant! I have to calm down. I have to get back to work, actually. I push the doors back open, reveling in the blast of heat. Everything seems brighter, the colors warmer, the wallpaper richer hued.

“Are you skipping?” Shira asks, staring at me.

Nina looks up from her computer, winks at me, and looks back down. She doesn’t do drama, Nina. I’m so jealous.

Was I skipping? Mortifying.

“Uh, no,” I say, mentally commanding my feet to walk like a normal person.

“ ’Kay,” Shira says, face expressionless. She’s sifting through color swatches. Does she know about my meeting?

I point to a rosy pink on my way past her. “I like that one.”

She looks at me. “For a bathroom sink?”

Oh. “Nope,” I say, smiling brightly. I settle down at my desk, heart pounding.

Nina eventually shuffles off to make herself a Nespresso. I watch her absently.

“So, was it like a package deal?” Shira’s voice breaks through my reverie.

I blink and turn to look at her. “Was what a what?”

“A package deal. Choose one diamond ring, get a promotion thrown in for free?”

I have to admit, it’s a good line. I look at Shira, the set of her mouth, the tautness in her jaw. I know she’s feeling like the world is out to get her, that not only can’t she move on to the next stage in life with seemingly everyone else, but she’s also being passed over professionally. And she’s right, but she’s also wrong.

“I’ll have you know,” I say tremulously, “that I work really, really hard, Shira.”

Which was true… up until six months ago.

Now I clock out five minutes early to put on makeup before Mike picks me up. I never stay late, and I don’t work from home. I hardly do research, and if it weren’t for my obsessive love of kitchens, I would probably have no idea that mid-century modern is in and stark modern is out.

Shira is giving me a hard stare.

“But I work harder,” she says softly.

But I’m the better designer, I say to myself. Then I shrug, straighten my shoulders, and turn away, my poker face concealing the storm I feel inside.

I start Googling rosy pink bathroom sinks. Awful. Okay, now I have no idea what I’m doing at home or at work. I might as well start burning Lara’s designs along with Mike’s dinner, since that’s what I’m best at, apparently. Cue full on impostor syndrome.

My phone pings again. It’s from Mike.

And congrats, Bayla! You are going to be amazing at this! I almost bite right through my lip. Men.

The coffee shop is warm and cozy and smells like pumpkin spice lattes and warm biscotti. Throw a small shopping mall in the back, and I’d say this is paradise.

Mike leans his chair back until he’s practically falling over. I imagine having to call Hatzalah because my husband doesn’t know how to sit normally.

“Um, can you be careful?” I say through the side of my mouth. He comes forward with a thud and smiles widely.

“I cannot believe she promoted you. This is insane.”

I can’t snap at my husband of six months, so I just look at him. His shirt is half in, half out, and the really nice Zara peacoat that I helped him pick out has dust all over one shoulder.

“Oh, I was helping Blumenkraus schlep things from his basement,” he says enthusiastically when I helpfully point these things out.

That’s wonderful for Blumenkraus. Meanwhile, I changed four times, cried, threw off my sheitel, put it back on, tried on three jackets and two coats, and am sitting here now, in that effortlessly chic way.

“That’s so nice,” I say, leaning forward and smiling at him.

I do not care that he looks like a mess. I do not care. I do not care. Okay, I care.

I look around the coffee house. The thing that really gets me is that most of the couples look so similar. Either totally disinterested in each other, both tapping away at phones. Or they’re both high style. Or both no style. Or both laughing, heads thrown back. So why do Mike and I seem like the only couple in this adorable date spot that has just sprung out of two totally different books? And when will that change?

to be continued…

(Originally featured in Family First, Issue 782)